


In The Beginning There Was A Spark

by intortus



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon Related, Canon Relationships, Conflict, Dreams, Emotions, First Love, Gap Filler, Gen, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 09:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intortus/pseuds/intortus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We do not choose love. It claims each man as it will.” Agron must learn this when he finds himself harbouring affection for a troublesome former slave. </p><p>Set during episode 2.02 - A Place in this World</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Beginning There Was A Spark

**Author's Note:**

> I sometimes wonder how Agron went from agreeing to kill Nasir to finding affection for him, all in the course of one episode. Here's what I think might have happened.

Agron felt his chest swell with annoyance and impatience. “He is given crumbs. Yet you present his fucking meal.” He would not see purpose in this futile chase, which surely would lead them all do their death so shortly after they have gained their freedom. It should be their priority to find security in strong numbers beyond the reach of Roman hands. 

“His heart aches for nourishment. I would have it well fed”, Spartacus countered. Agron considered this for a moment, feeling the grief his own heart carried, the loss of the comforting presence of his brother. Annoyance overtook him once again - he did not care to loose yet more of his brothers in arms only to satisfy the needs of a fucking Gaul. “Even if Naevia lives, she will not be the woman he holds to memory. If we are to stand against Glaber and the Romans, we must liberate fighting men. Not waste effort on dwindling hope and worthless house slaves.”

Spartacus cast him a disapproving look. “Every man has his worth. A lesson the Romans will soon learn.” Agron resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he watched the captured house slaves line up in front of them. Spartacus turned to address them. “The bonds of slavery have been struck. Never again will you feel them tighten around your neck, robbing you of breath and life,” he tore the collar from the slave closest to them. He was of small stature, but his soft countenance outshone that of his fellow slaves. A confused hand examined a newly exposed neck. 

“See your own join your brothers and take up just cause. We'll see the Romans bleed for taking us as dogs, to be yanked by the leash at their command.” He paused and turned to his men, “Tychos! Sophus! Weapons!” 

Agron sighed. He was fed up with these pointless efforts. How could a house slave possibly be turned into a fierce warrior? His eyes went to the slave closest to him again as Spartacus handed a sword to the man. Such a delicate thing would not stand a chance in battle. 

“Now.” Spartacus uttered, as Agron’s gaze fell back onto his fellow gladiator. ”Who would have blood?”

Agron lingered a moment as he watched Spartacus giving the men instructions, but soon his patience dwindled. Spartacus would not hear his reason, so he did not see worth in making attempt to convince him of his opinion further. His eyes flickered back to the small, black-haired man, then he walked away in pursuit of wine and gave the matter no further thought. 

***

Agron assembled pieces of cloth and fur into a makeshift bedroll next to his fellow warriors. He thought of Spartacus and Mira, who had claimed the dominus’ bed. Familiar noise would surely follow soon, echoing through the open walls of the villa. Agron sighed. He had not pursued pleasures of his own since before the battle that saw him captured as slave. 

As he was about remove his sword from his belt, his ears stood to attention. He heard quarrel from the dominus’ bedroom, but not the kind he anticipated. Moments later he saw Spartacus emerge, followed by two men holding the dark-haired slave. The slave was struggling, a grim look on his face. Spartacus’ eyes scanned the hall, “Agron! Crixus! A word!” 

Agron followed Spartacus and saw Crixus emerge from the opposite side of the hall. He addressed Spartacus, “What is the meaning of this?”. 

Spartacus sighed and looked at the dark boy. “He made attempt on my life. Had Mira not seen him approach, he might have succeeded.” 

“Fuck the gods”, Agron rolled his eyes. This all but confirmed that Spartacus’ pursuit of training house slaves was a futile effort. 

“Why did you not take his life then and there?” Crixus addressed Spartacus. Agron was surprised to be of like mind with the Gaul. 

“He stands our equal. He might yet prove useful”, Spartacus countered. As they arrived in the chamber they had previously used for discussing attack plans, the slave continued to struggle against his captors. He is of a form, Agron thought, yet of troubled mind. 

Crixus was now pacing in front of the troublesome slave, suspiciously eyeing him. “You yet wish to train this fuck?”

“The boy deserves opportunity.” Spartacus replied.

“He was given such a thing, and made attempt on your life in response,” Crixus said impatiently. Agron reluctantly realised that the Gaul’s words held meaning. 

Agron rolled his eyes, annoyed not only with Crixus but himself. “Gods save me, I find myself in agreement with a Gaul.” He sighed heavily. 

But Spartacus was not to be argued with. “He has known nothing but slavery. The strength of such a tether not easily severed.” For a moment, Agron mulled over Spartacus’ words. He had not considered that the boy might never have known freedom. As a free-born man, he could not imagine being in such a position, living under the command of a dominus even as child… but this would further complicate trying to convince him that freedom is preferable to slavery.

Crixus seemed to agree, “Perhaps never to be so.”

“And if we take his life? What message will that send to those who wish to join our cause?”, Spartacus countered.

Agron did not see why anyone would join their cause if they did not agree with it. “That they had best be agreeable”, he half-asked Spartacus. 

Spartacus adhered to his opinion. “We're Romans then? Commanding through fear and threat of death?”

Crixus’ patience seemed to have run out, “If he makes attempt again, I will make sure he joins his fucking dominus,” he said, before slapping the boy on his way out of the room. The boy glared at Crixus, biting his bleeding lip. 

Agron took a seat next to Spartacus. Taking in the rather handsome form of the boy, he asked “And how do you propose we train this wild little dog?”

“As Batiatus had Doctore train me,” was Spartacus’ suggestion. 

Agron considered this and thought of the irony. Spartacus had taken up rebellion against those who trained him. Would the boy pursue equal path? His eyes turned to Spartacus. “And that turned out so well,” he said. Spartacus gave Agron a look of bemusement and offence, but Agron did not care to continue the discussion. This rebellion was doomed if all they would continue to do was trying to train reluctant house slaves. 

He stood up and headed back to his bedroll. Perhaps dawn would bring better fortune. 

_Agron was standing on a boulder, feeling a soft breeze on his face. A few paces ahead of him stretched a mighty river: the Rhine. He glanced into the distance, following the flow of the snaking stream. The blueish water was surrounded by a border of rocky white plains and patches of grass, which gradually disappeared into the green forests that surrounded him. On several occasions he had seen the water reach the forest after a rainy season. Today, the water was at its usual level, allowing him to scout for curious deer that might seek drink. While his eyes scanned the area closest to him, he caught a movement in the corner of his eye. He spotted a figure on the opposite bank of the river. Squinting into the distance, he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. It was a man, dressed in robes the colour of blood, which in turn were covered by silver bits of armour. He was wearing a helmet with ridiculous decorations that made him look like a cockerel. This could not be a Gaul. Perhaps it was one of the bastards from the south who had caused the downfall of so many tribes?_

_Agron jumped from the boulder and ran into the forest. Fucking Romans, he thought. His feet swiftly carried him through the treacherous thicket, always knowing when to avoid a hole and jump over a fallen tree. He ran and ran as if chased by demons, stray rays of sun following his pace. Suddenly, he stood in the middle of a village, encircled by wooden huts. He stopped for a moment, catching his breath. He could not remember why he had been running. His hand fell to his belt, trying to secure his sword, but he grabbed nothing but an empty sheath. Confused, his eyes wandered to the inside of his arm where a red blistering brand protruded from his skin._

_A voice caused him to look up. “Hello brother. Where do your feet carry you?” his sister smiled at him. She was emptying a bucket into a trough. A boar was greedily munching at the scraps. Agron paused a moment, looking at the sparkling eyes of his sister. Her flowing hair was caught in a light breeze, the smile still strong on her face. “Have you seen my sword?” Agron heard himself say in response._

_His feet had already picked up pace, and before she could answer he was standing inside their cottage. It was darker inside, but a fire was burning in the middle of the room. Duro was sitting in front of it, eating a piece of goat cheese. “Would you like some cheese?” he uttered, muffled by a mouthful of chewing. The image of his dead brother briefly flashed before Agron’s eyes. He was confused to see Duro sitting here. “I’m looking for my sword…” he said, but he was already drawing back the curtain that separated the large room from the smaller room._

_His feet felt cold stone beneath them - he was standing in the baths of Batiatus’ ludus. The room was eerily empty except for a man sitting in the bath at the opposite end of the room. Agron examined him - it was the troublesome body slave they had just freed, his face framed by wet dark hair. Submerged to the ribs, he was concentrating on softly scrubbing his glistening wet skin with a sponge. The room echoed with the dripping of water as he moved the sponge in and out of it. The reflections on the ceiling flickered in unison with the rippling of water. Agron followed the slave’s dark eyes as they examined own shoulder and arm. Should he announce his presence or leave the boy undisturbed to his task?_

_Suddenly, Agron felt hands grab him from behind, turning him around. “Agron, your sword!” announced Donar, looking at him with excitement. He pressed a sword to Agron’s chest, who took it and examined it. “What…?!” It was dripping with water and smelled of bath oils. The leather strip encompassing the handle had loosened. He fumbled at it to tighten it, but was not successful. Eventually he gave up and took hold of the sheath at his belt and sheathed the sword, but it wouldn’t quite fit._

_“Have you found game?” a deep voice said to him. He looked up and saw Spartacus before him. They were walking alongside the edge of the cliff in the ludus. “There’s a Roman at the…”, Agron began, but he lost his footing and fell of the edge-_

Agron woke with a start, legs still twisting. Was he falling? Drunkenness of sleep kept him confused for a few moments before he realised it had just been a dream. He tried to recall the events of it and remembered his brother and sister, Donar and Spartacus and the slave boy. Why would he dream of the boy…?

Donar tapped him on the shoulder with a mug. “Finally! I had thought your sleep possessed by demons, the way you twisted and turned. Rise and break fast quickly, for we have many tasks at hand!” he said cheerfully. Agron grunted in acknowledgement and stumbled off, trying to hold onto the images of his dream. But before he knew it, they had slipped from mind. 

***

Agron had just finished early training with Donar. In pursuit of midday meal, he walked alongside the stairs of the temple. The courtyard was still busy with fighting, clash of wooden swords filling the air. As he was about to walk up the stairs, he was almost thrown off balance when one of the fighters was thrown backwards into him. For a brief moment, he felt the sweaty skin of a backside stick to his chest. Swiftly, his hands grabbed the shoulders of the man before him, steadying them both. The man turned around. It was the rebellious slave who had attacked Spartacus. “Apologies”, he said awkwardly, “further proof of wasted effort.” As their eyes met, Agron noticed that the boy was clearly still conflicted. The boy’s eyes wandered to the floor, seeking words that might calm the giant before him. “Fortis set task to instruct in the ways of battle, yet hands do not find purpose with sword,” he mumbled. Agron’s eyes turned to Fortis, who was observing the situation, and back to the boy. 

Agron found himself caught in a predicament. This situation confirmed what he had tried to convince Spartacus of when they first freed the villa. House slaves would never become warriors to aid their cause. This boy had probably never even witnessed a battle, let alone touched a sword. However, he felt his empathy for the boy overtake his anger. Something in the sadness of the boy’s eyes made him want to offer comfort instead of confirming what both of them believed true, but he struggled to find the right words. “Fear not”, he muttered eventually, “take up sword again and let time instruct how to handle it”. Finally, the boy shyly looked back into Agron’s eyes, still with a sad expression on his face. Agron tried to give him a reassuring smile, which was returned with a haunted twitch in the corner of the boy’s mouth. His hair fluttered in a soft breeze, which carried the boy’s scent to Agron. Suddenly, Agron was very aware that he was still holding onto his shoulders. An image of the boy sitting in a bath, sponge in hand, flashed before his eyes. He let go of his shoulders in surprise as he felt a light tingle flashing through his chest. He imagined he saw an echo of it in the boy’s eyes as they briefly lit up, but soon they were clouded by sadness again. 

Agron nodded with a quick smile at the boy and at Fortis, then he turned and continued on the path they had interrupted. His thoughts were still lingering on the image of the boy in the bath. For a moment he was unsure whether he had actually witnessed such a situation, but then he remembered that it was a dream he had a few nights ago. 

He could not shake the thought for the remainder of the day. When he returned to training, his eyes would wander off to the boy, who was still reluctantly being trained, between them a number of sword-hands seeking purpose in practice. His glances were never more than the blink of an eye. But with every glance, he feasted more and more on the attractiveness of the boy. And with every glance, he became more conflicted. The boy was trouble, it would not be easy to persuade him of the cause. Agron’s distraction was noticed by his training partners during the afternoon, who bested him in several fights. When he found himself on the ground again after losing another round, he relieved his partner for the rest of the day. As he stood up, he walked over to Donar, who was watching the training progress. Agron followed his gaze and noticed that the boy was now being trained by Spartacus himself, wooden sword replaced by steel. The despair of the morning seemed to have been replaced by fierce determination to prove himself against the leader of the rebels. 

Donar shuffled his feet. “Should have put the boy down. Dog bites once, he will bare fucking teeth again.”

Agron looked at the boy. He knew Donar’s words held truth, yet he no longer wished to see the boy dead, though he did not quite know why. Perhaps the boy would prove himself if he was given another chance. He recalled Spartacus’ words about the boy having known nothing by slavery - something Agron still struggled to imagine. After all, he had been living free until the war that saw him and his brother captured. Easing the boy’s troubled mind would be an arduous task. As he contemplated whether it would be worth the effort, he recalled briefly catching the boy’s scent during the moment they had shared in the morning and felt an echo of the jolt in his stomach. His eyes lit up and found themselves feasting on the boy, who was defending himself against Spartacus in swift movements. The flawless body of a young god… it would be a shame to see it tainted.

“Pity,” sighed Agron, at loss of a better response. Donar turned to look at him, a bewildered expression on his face. 

***

The room was bustling with chatter. Everyone was taking their meal, claiming the villa finally saw them well-fed after a length of near-starvation. Agron was chewing on a piece of meat when he felt a gaze fixed on him. He looked up and tried to find the source, but he could not make it out. The Gauls were sitting at the other end of the room, next to them a fair bit closer some of the former slaves of the villa. He spotted the handsome boy he had collided with earlier. The boy was compulsively looking at his own feet, a piece of bread in his hand. He was sitting next to the blonde woman who had caught Rhaskos’ attention. Just as Agron was taking another bite, he felt eyes on him again. This time he was quick enough to find the source; it was the boy. For the briefest of moments they looked into each other’s eyes. Agron’s heart jumped. But as soon as the boy was discovered, he dropped his gaze back to his feet. The girl sitting next to him had noticed their exchange and suppressed a grin. Surprised at his own reaction, Agron tried as best as he could to not repeat the situation, though he believed that he felt brief gazes on him again and again during the meal. 

***

Another long day of training, hunting and raiding had passed. The sun had set many hours ago and the need for rest swept over Agron. He had just finished discussion with Spartacus and Crixus. They knew they would have to move on to the next villa soon, as the Romans would find them if they stayed much longer. Romans were not the only threat to them - Crixus was growing impatient in his search for Naevia, his temper rising. ‘His heart aches for nourishment…’ a voice echoed through Agron’s mind. 

Agron reached the hall they used for sleep. He gathered a few blankets into a bedroll and lay down next to Donar, who was already snoring, one hand loosely placed over the axe at his side. Agron wrapped himself into his cloak and soon joined him in slumber. 

_He felt something heavy pulling down his wrists. He was standing on a wooden block in a town square, his hands shackled together by chains. He saw second pair of hands next to him, blood dripping from them. He looked up. His gaze met the smiling eyes of his brother. A shock went through Agron’s heart. “You are wounded!” he blurted out._

_“’Tis but a scratch, brother,” Duro smiled and pressed his forehead against Agron’s for a moment. Suddenly Duro’s eyes widened as if a fire had ignited in them, “Quickly! Free yourself of shackle! We must gather mushrooms!”, he cheered._

_Agron fumbled at the chains, which fell to the floor when he all but touched them. Were chains supposed to be that loosely fixed? While he examined the chains that lay at his bare feet with puzzlement, his hand absent-mindedly went to scratch his head. It took hold of something unexpected. He lowered it and saw a strand of his own braided hair lying in his palm. Surprised, he let it drop to the floor. His hand quickly went to his head again, but it felt nothing but soft, cropped hair beneath it._

_He looked up, but Duro was gone. He stepped off the wooden block, his bare feet now feeling sand beneath them. A roar deafened his ears and caused his heart to thunder against his chest. The town square was gone, he was standing in the arena, naked except for the cloth that covered his waist. An armoured figure charged at him, shield and sword ready for battle. Agron’s eyes widened in panic - he had neither weapons nor armour. How was he supposed to survive in the arena? With a swift motion he evaded the charging figure and swivelled around. The figure removed its helmet - it was Crixus. “Fight, you cunt!” he growled as the crowd roared. Agron felt rage overcome him at the thought of dying at the hands of a fucking Gaul. “I will rip out your heart!” he screamed and charged at Crixus empty-handed. Jumping into the air, he kicked at Crixus’ sword-hand with his bare foot. Crixus was taken by surprise, the sword was sent flying to the sands. In defence, he bashed his shield at Agron’s head. Agron fell backwards onto the sands, eyes forced closed by the blast._

_It was quiet now, except for the chirping of birds in the distance. His head was throbbing on the ground. Did it feel like a pillow?, he wondered. Just as he was about to reopen his eyes, he felt a hot breath on his face, followed by wet lips meeting his own. Someone was kissing him. He was helplessly delivered into the kiss. All he could do was return it. He felt something stubbly graze his skin, something else tickling his cheekbones. A hand was slowly exploring his body, gently caressing his skin, while a tongue worked its way around his own. When the hand reached his stomach, it suddenly stopped and the lips gently broke away from his. Agron finally opened his eyes. The arena had gone, around him were stone walls speckled with stray rays of light. He looked into the deep brown eyes of the youthful man above him. Strands of long silky black hair framed the handsome face that cast a huge smile at him. He had never seen such a smile on this face. Agron felt his own features infected by it, returning it in full. He was baffled to be receiving such affection. A tingling sensation traveled over his entire body. Magnetically, the distance between them was closing again and they fell into another kiss. His hands wrapped themselves around the ribs of the man. He wanted to explore this body, but his hands would not quite obey. They seemed to have hit an invisible wall. As he struggled to move them, he felt the other man’s hand continuing its way downward, while at the same time something hard and hot pressed against his stomach. His heart skipped a beat, he felt the blood drain from his head-_

“Agron!” A hand shook his shoulder. Agron woke with a start, his heart hammering against his chest. He looked at Donar, who was still shaking him. “Agron! Wake from slumber! Dawn is upon us, Spartacus and Crixus call for you!” Agron felt light-headed and realised with surprise what he had encountered in his dream. “In a moment”, he mumbled. Donar cast a knowing grin. “Slumber pleases you with sweet dreams. A welcome comfort in dire times. But clear mind now, or else be at the receiving end of the Gaul’s impatience,” he laughed. Agron gave him a sleep-drunk grin. “Return to task, you lazy shit!”, he answered. 

Donar wandered off, leaving Agron alone with his thoughts. Images of the dream floated back into his mind. Shock and confusion overtook his body once more. As he recalled the feeling of the boy’s his lips on his own, he felt the tingling sensation speed through his body again. He cursed his own attraction to the boy. How can this possibly end well? They live in times of war where love has no place, least of all that which involves a troubled former slave. “Fuck the gods” he heard himself mutter, as he realised ’I don’t even know his name.’

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments & feedback very welcome.


End file.
